Restitution
by Force Unbroken
Summary: She's picked up his broken pieces more times than he can count. Now, it's his turn to return the favor. Possible spoilers for 7x11 "Family Practice". House/Cuddy


_Because the producers of House M.D. have decided to torture us with yet another hiatus, my severely House-deprived brain has been forced to do far too much speculation on the upcoming and sure to be epic episode. Therefore, through the miracle that is imagination, this fiction was born. That being said, there are possible spoilers for the 7x11 episode "Family Practice" included, though it is all my own personal speculation and none of it can be proven until the episode airs. This is my first House fanfiction. I hope you enjoy it._

_**Disclaimer: **So... I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. All rights go to David Shore, Katie Jacobs, and all those affiliated with the production of House M.D. It's their world. I just play in it._

**_Author's Note: _**_Throughout this piece, there are song lyrics written in bold italics. They are taken from the song **Pieces** by **RED**. This story was greatly inspired by the song and, to fully understand the tone and depth I was trying to create here, I highly recommend giving it a listen. After all, at the very least, you'd have heard an absolutely beautiful piece of music. What have you got to lose?_

* * *

**Restitution**

****

**_I'm here again, a thousand miles away from you. A broken mess, just scattered pieces of who I am…_**

The room is cold and empty.

Once, these four walls held life. Breaths were breathed, time was counted, sorrow was tasted and love was made, each experience locked away in the confines of a heart that knew no bounds. Memories were imprinted on the walls, testaments to the life existing in this space.

Now, there is nothing left but the emptiness.

Cold gray light stains the walls. There is no beauty anymore; the world is only ugly and disfigured. The air is stale to screaming lungs, but it is breathed anyway because there is nothing left. This room is a crypt for the living.

It is a memorial for the dead.

She lies motionless, staring up into nothing, the sound of her breathing a dull scrape against the pervading stillness. Inside she feels as hollow and lifeless as this room, her spark hidden behind the numbness which has swallowed her into its gaping mouth. Dull gray-blue eyes listlessly scan the lines of the ceiling, but they do not comprehend what they see. She won't close them, however. She is too afraid of what she will see when her lids fall shut.

_-gasping for breath, pulse is weakening, Oh God don't let this be it-_

She grits her teeth hard, but it is not enough…

_-alarms blaring, O2 sats plummeting, tachycardia taking hold of the heart-_

_-paddles charging, mouth gone dry, dear God don't let her give up yet-_

"_Clear!"_

_-no response, charging again, hands shaking-_

"_Clear!"_

_-thrice more, desperation taking hold, all you need is one more time, just one more to make it work-_

_-strong hands on yours, wrenching the paddles away; more strong hands on your shoulders, holding you back-_

_-flatline droning, then silence then-_

"_Time of death, 12:47 a.m."_

She begins to tremble, her body reacting to the memory, but she does not have the strength to fight it. Hot tears wind trails from the corners of her eyes, but she does not feel them. She does not cry, merely succumbs to the emptiness of her soul.

Today, she is alone in the world.

Today, she is an orphan.

**_I tried so hard; thought I could do this on my own. I've lost so much along the way…_**

She blames herself. Deep inside, buried beneath the layers of numbness and hurt and self-recrimination, there is a part of her that logically knows there was nothing else she could have done. The doctor part of her genetic makeup keeps whispering that she took all the necessary precautions, performed all the correct procedures, she did everything _right_, but that voice is so easily drowned by the louder one that screams in her head like a recurring nightmare:

_Why didn't you save her?_

She can't help but think that there was something else she could have done, could have tried; that if she'd listened sooner, paid attention to her mother's complaints instead of dismissing them as the laments of a hypochondriac, she would have found the answer in time. She's heard House berate her on the perversity and lunacy of her guilt countless times, but it does nothing to lift the weight that crushes against her ribs with each breath. She saw the look on her sister's face as their mother's heart stopped beating, saw the fear and despair and grief mirrored there, but beneath it all, she saw blame in Lucinda's cold dark eyes. It pierced her, driving a knife deep into her chest, but she would not pretend that it did not exist. She would not delude herself into believing that she didn't deserve it. It was too late for Lucinda to blame her.

She had already blamed herself.

For the majority of her life, she had been a disappointment to her mother. The relationship she'd had with the woman who'd given her life had begun to disintegrate by the time she turned twelve, her dreams of becoming a doctor not holding with her mother's ideals or expectations. If Arlene Cuddy had had anything to say about it, her eldest daughter would have _married_ a nice Jewish doctor, not become one. Lisa had learned to withstand a thousand different sorrows and regrets, but the disappointment she saw in her mother's eyes was a wound that would never fully heal. She'd failed, both as a doctor…and a daughter.

Years of regrets wash over her, drowning her in the flood. She remembers every fight, every exchange of words, everything she wishes she could change but knows she can't. Somehow she wishes she could take it all back, try to do things right, try to set herself aside and respect her mother's desires for her life without completely losing everything she wanted for herself.

She wishes she could have been the daughter her mother wanted her to be.

She breathes in, the hollow space within her chest achingly flaring to life, reminding her that she's still here, still alive, still breathing. The numbness she feels inside has provided a shelter, something to hide behind so she can pretend it doesn't hurt so much. In the hours following her mother's death, she sought refuge in the sanctuary of her office, burying herself in the paperwork that littered her desk, trying to find something that would help her hold herself together. She couldn't stay in that room anymore. She couldn't watch her mother's body lie lifeless on the sheets, couldn't listen to her sister break down or scream her grief into the silence of the hospital room, couldn't face the looks of pity in the other doctors' eyes whenever they looked at her. She didn't need their pity. She didn't need anything from them.

At first, the solitude was enough. The hospital walls are familiar, soothing in their own way, a semblance of normalcy when nothing else is normal and never will be again, but suddenly those walls seemed to be closing in on her, crushing her beneath their weight, and the comfort she'd felt vanished as though it had never been. She felt trapped, tense, on edge, each passing moment becoming more and more of a struggle to breathe. She couldn't think anymore, couldn't shake the urge to be somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, couldn't suppress the urge to run. Just when she'd thought she couldn't take it anymore, Wilson, true to his knight-in-shining-armor persona, had offered her an out, volunteering to keep Rachel for the night so she could go home, get some rest, and begin making funeral arrangements. She'd accepted his offer gratefully, knowing she was in no condition to care for her two-and-a-half year old daughter right now. A large part of her had been desperate to hold her baby close and never let her go, but the other part had been equally as desperate to leave, to find somewhere far, far away from here where she could just…_breathe_, where she could pick up the pieces and decide where to go from this point. In the end, she'd done what was best for Rachel, leaving her in Wilson's capable, though somewhat inexperienced, hands.

She doesn't remember how she got here. She doesn't remember leaving the hospital, or driving home, or even stumbling through her front door. She doesn't know how long she's been here, lying still on her back, the mattress molded to the curvature of her spine. All she knows is that her mother is dead, and for once in her life, she doesn't know how to handle it.

Time passes indefinitely, the dimming light splaying gently across the bedroom walls. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realizes that a door has opened and closed, the sound echoing softly through the stillness of her home. She hears the gentle creak of floorboards, indicating footsteps approaching, the gait familiar and uneven.

She knows it's him.

A shuddery breath escapes her lips, her eyes closing as more tears find their way down her skin. She doesn't want him here. Not now, not after everything that's happened, not while she's still so unstable. She needs time, time to get through this herself.

But he can't even give her that.

Internally, she finds herself at war with her own emotions. There is a part of her, her weakest side, that wants the comfort his presence will give her, wants the strength his abrasiveness brings out in her, wants him to find a way to help her get herself back together, but realistically, she knows that will never happen. She is lost, confused, and in pain, but she is not naïve enough to believe that House will ever change. Her other half, the strong, untouchable front she puts forth every day of her life, curses her for her weakness, for her pathetic yearning to be comforted like a child. She hasn't been a child in thirty years, and now is not the time to start acting like one. So she does what she always does: listens to her stronger side, rebuilds her walls, and leaves her weaker half out in the cold.

But no matter what she tries, it doesn't make it hurt any less.

She can hear his three-legged gait coming up the hall, and she knows that it won't be long until he finds her, but she wishes she could stay hidden from him forever. Her mind flashes back to the last time she spoke to him, the last time they were alone before her mother's death. She'd stood in her office, staring out the window at the rain, him beside her and looming over her like a shadow. She'd come directly from her mother's room, hands shaking, in shock after watching her mother enter a severe state of respiratory distress and barely pull through. House had followed her, as close as she'd ever seen him come to caring, but she'd been too shaken for it to even register. _"What just happened?"_ she'd whispered, unable to look at him, unable to face the look she knew she'd find in his eyes.

His answer had been to the point, but for the first time, he was not callous, or unfeeling. _"She's not responding to the treatment,"_ he'd said, glazing over the fact that Arlene Cuddy would not likely survive another respiratory attack like that one. _"We're gonna have to start her on new meds and hope they work in time."_

"_And if they don't?"_ she'd asked, afraid to hear his answer, afraid to hear him confirm what she already knew, but she asked anyway because she had to. _"What if there isn't enough time to get the old drugs out of her system?"_

And then he'd said it, the five words that rocked her to her very core. _"Then…you just killed her."_

Bile rises in her throat, and her mouth goes dry at the memory.

He wasn't wrong.

He was _never_ wrong.

Then she sees him, standing in the doorway, his silhouette limned by the dim light behind him, and she knows she can't hide. She doesn't look at him, doesn't face him, doesn't remove her empty gaze from the ceiling above her, but she knows he's _there_, knows he's watching, and she knows there's no escaping him now.

So she forces herself to breathe, and she resigns herself to her fate.

**_I come undone, but you make sense of who I am, like puzzle pieces in your hands…_**

He knew he would find her here.

Of all the things Lisa Cuddy is, predictable is not on the list. She can shock, surprise, and stun him anytime she chooses, and sometimes when she doesn't. He'll never tell her, but that's one of the things he loves about her; the fact that she's like him in that area makes him feel closer to her, makes him intrigued by her, makes her a puzzle he can't help but want to figure out.

But today, there's very little to solve.

He _knew _she'd be here. There was no great mystery to solve, no symptoms or observations or possibilities to scribble on his whiteboard, no need to sit in his office and throw his tennis ball against the wall until he finally found his answer. He'd simply limped down to his motorcycle and found his way here, because he knew there was no place else she would go.

She doesn't _have_ anywhere else to go.

She lies on her back, unmoving, one hand resting just above her stomach and the other placed palm-upward on her pillow. If she's realized he's there, she hasn't made any indication of it, her gaze blank and unseeing, her once-brilliant slate blue eyes as dead, lifeless, and gray as ash. He's seen her at her lows before, or at least he thought he had, the night she lost Joy swirling through his memory, but it doesn't take him long to realize that that night was nothing compared to the way she looks now. Tear tracks draw slanted lines from the outside corners of her eyes, but he doesn't think she even notices their presence. His hand clenches firmly around the cool, smooth hardwood of his cane. He doesn't know how to deal with this.

He hesitates at the door, his stomach in his throat. His first instinct is to run, as far and fast as he can; to get away from all this…_emotion_, because it's not his thing. He can handle Cuddy happy, mad, ticked off, and absolutely furious, but this is something completely different, something that will require him to show his human side. He's uncomfortable, and though he'll never admit it, he's a little bit afraid.

But he does it anyway.

He is a miserable, misanthropic SOB, and he knows it. He's arrogant, cynical, and he is not afraid to lie. But last night, he made a promise to an old, dying Jewish woman, and for the first time in God knows how long, he has every intention of keeping it.

Arlene's words keep playing back through his mind, spoken mere hours before her death. _"I'm gonna…make…something…_clear_…to you," _she'd wheezed, her breathing labored and raspy, her eyes boring into him like twin daggers. _"You are…the _last _person…I would have…chosen for my daughter. You're pushy…and rude, and…let's face it…I don't…like you. I still think…you're a pain in the tuchas…with a God complex. But…my daughter…loves you, and…that's enough for me." _She'd paused, swallowing hard, her tongue running over dry, cracked lips as she struggled for breath. _"Lisa…is strong. You and I both…know that. She's going to…deny that…this hurts her in…any way. But…she's going to…need somebody…after I'm gone, and…you're the only person she…trusts. You can get…through to her. You don't have to like it, but…you will do it, because…if I find out that you've…hurt my daughter…in any way, I will…haunt you from the…grave, and…make your life a living…hell until the…day you die."_

And he'd promised her, right then and there, to look after her daughter, though not in so many words. Truthfully, however, he didn't have to promise anything. He loves Lisa-_Cuddy_-too much to leave her alone.

He just won't admit it out loud.

Swallowing back all his misgivings and trepidation, he slowly edges into the room, his uneven steps unusually silent on the floor. She never even looks at him, only closes her eyes for a moment, her sooty lashes contrasting sharply against the sickly pallor of her skin. Her silence is disconcerting. Unsure of how else to approach her, he hooks his cane over the footboard of the bed, gingerly settling himself beside her on the mattress and using his hands to lift his mangled thigh. Finally she shows some kind of reaction to him; her eyes flicker in his direction for a brief moment, then she turns her face away from him, and he knows she's trying to hide the evidence of her weakness. He winces, wanting to touch her, but he stops himself before he can. She's not ready for that yet.

After a moment's deliberation, he speaks, his voice soft but strong. "Wilson stopped by for some of Mini-Cuddy's stuff," he says, making sure not to look at her for too long. If she feels cornered or threatened by him, he knows what her reaction will be, and the last thing she needs right now is to raise her hackles and fight her way out. "I told him to call if he has any problems with the spawn. If my phone doesn't ring in five minutes, I think we're okay."

She nods slowly, her throat bobbing slightly as she swallows and licks her lips, but she doesn't say anything. He frowns. "Your psycho-case of a sister finally went back to her hotel, but if she says anything to you about security or forcible removal from hospital grounds, it wasn't my fault."

Cuddy nods again, but this time, she finally forces words past her lips. "I guess I'd better call Lucinda, start making funeral arrangements," she murmurs hoarsely, her voice raw from hours without use. He hears her sniff softly even though he can't fully see her face, and he watches her wipe the tears away with the back of her hand. "She'll know what Mom would have wanted better than I will."

He hears the sorrow veiled in her words and, uncertain of how to react, decides to use his patented humor-as-a-distraction technique. "Funeral arrangements? Come on, how hard is it to dig a hole and stick the broad in a pine box?"

Anyone else would have taken offense at that statement, but not Cuddy. Even mired in the haze of her grief, she knows what he's trying to do. He's watching her closely, hoping to see a spark in her eyes, a smile, _anything_ to prove that she's still in there somewhere, but other than the barest quirk to her lips, he finds no evidence of a reaction. It worries him, but honestly, he knows it's going to take a lot more to free her from the numbness she's drowning in. This won't be pleasant for either of them, but he knows he has to do it.

He slowly leans in a little closer to her, his piercing blue eyes tracing the lines of her jaw, knowing what he has to say and wishing he didn't have to do it. "It wouldn't have made a difference even if we'd figured out what was wrong with her in the first differential," he says, noticing Cuddy stiffen at the mention of her mother. "She was too far gone when she walked in the door. At best, we could have given her a couple more hours, couple more chances to say goodbye, but…in the end, it wouldn't have made a difference. She was gonna die, anyway."

For the first time since he walked in the door, she turns to face him, and the bleakness on her face, in her eyes, chills him to the bone. "You don't know that," she whispers, her tone emotionless. He can't stop himself, and he reaches out to firmly grab her elbow. "Yes," he says, steel in his tone, "I do. The right medicine, all the right answers, none of that would have stopped her from dying. The only thing that would have is time, and a little honesty on Mother Dearest's end wouldn't have hurt either. Why can't you just accept that and stop trying to justify her death?"

Suddenly, something within her snaps, and anger flares in her rain-colored eyes. He's broken through the numbness, finally provoked a reaction, finally gotten her to _feel_ something; he just wishes that it didn't have to be done this way. "You don't get it, do you?" she growls, her voice low and dangerous, shaking her head incredulously. "Everybody keeps telling me that there's nothing we could have done, that I made all the right calls, that we just ran out of _time_, but it isn't true. I _had_ time! I had _years_ to figure out that something was wrong, but all I did was manage to find ways to blow Mom off when she kept complaining about the stupidest things. If I had actually taken three minutes to look at her, or…hadn't been so busy trying to prove she was wrong about everything in my life, then I could have found her symptoms earlier, and we could have treated her while there was still time!"

A cold laugh explodes from his lips, and he looks away in disbelief. "I don't believe this," he says, his voice rising in succession with hers. "You're not an idiot, Cuddy, so stop acting like one! People die. It happens, sometimes on our watch, and there's _nothing we can do about it_. We're doctors, and yeah, it sucks to lose a patient, but you are the only one guilt-ridden enough to blame yourself for it."

Her eyes are narrowed and full of fire, her lips curled back in a snarl that would have terrified a lesser man. "Liar," she spits, her hands trembling in fury. "You can go on thinking I'm a masochist all you want, but just remember that you were the one to cast the first stone."

"_What if there isn't enough time to get the old drugs out of her system?"_

"_Then…you just killed her."_

His eyes widen and he looks away, slack-jawed, wondering how he could have ever been stupid enough to say something like that to someone with a guilt complex as large as Cuddy's. He's poured gas on a fire and handed her matches, and now he's watching her go down in flames.

He shakes his head, his tone softening. "Twenty years of not listening to a word I said and you choose now to start believing me?"

She chews at her lip, her anger beginning to drain away, leaving her exhausted and worn. "I believe the truth."

"What truth?" he snorts, waving his hand dismissively. "You of all people should know my propensity for lying." Slowly he releases his grip on her arm, letting his hand rest on her hip instead, rubbing small circles there with his thumb. "I didn't…mean it," he mumbles awkwardly, the concept of apology unfamiliar to him. "You should know me well enough by now to know that I don't mean half the crap that comes out of my mouth."

Her eyes drift closed, another tear tracing a path down her cheek, and she turns away from him. "You didn't have to mean it, House," she whispers, her voice soft and husky but not tremulous. A long sigh escapes her lips before she can speak again. "I've been disappointing my mother since I was twelve years old," she begins, looking at anything but him. "My whole life has been one argument with her after another: my college choices, my career, my lack of a family, my complete and utter failure to live my life the way she wanted. The only thing I was ever confident about was my ability as a doctor. Now…" she swallowed, shaking her head. "Now I'm not so sure about that anymore. And it makes me think that…maybe, she was right about me. Maybe if I'd just…listened to her, there would have been something I could have done. Maybe I wouldn't have failed her."

He sighs, silently cursing Arlene Cuddy for so severely screwing up her daughter. Mere grief would have been a perfectly acceptable and typical response to the death of a parent, but not self-blame or guilt, not in the degrees that Cuddy is experiencing. He knows whose fault that is.

The silence between them remains unbroken for what feels like an eternity, neither knowing quite how to shatter it. He knows he should say something, but he doesn't know what. He's completely out of his depth here, and for the first, and probably only, time in his life, he wishes he were Wilson. As annoying and utterly wrong as that would be, at least he would know how to handle a situation like this and not totally screw it up. The last thing Cuddy needs right now is more mistakes.

He lets out a long breath before speaking. "Life…sucks," he begins awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. "Bad things happen to good people, and bad things happen to bad people. Doesn't matter what, when, or why, eventually you _are_ gonna get screwed over. Eventually, you _are_ gonna die. Everybody dies, and everybody lies. Your mom just got a double dose of both truths. But that does _not_ make it your fault. She was an idiot on her own time, and there wasn't a thing you could have done. It wasn't your fault." His face is impassive, but his eyes silently plead with her to face him, wanting her to understand what he's trying so desperately to get across. When she doesn't, he carefully squeezes her shoulder. "Hey…look at me," he murmurs in a low voice, the usual gruffness of his tone not nearly so pronounced. He'd hoped she would listen to him, but she continues to avert her gaze, so his grip tightens and he calls her name. "Cuddy," he says, his voice louder, harsher, more forceful, "_look at me_."

Slowly, hesitantly, her eyes come to meet his, slate against azure, darkness against light. "It wasn't your fault," he reiterates, locking his gaze with hers, unwilling to let her look away. "It may have been someone else's fault, but it wasn't yours."

Finally, after what seems like forever, she nods, exhaling shakily. Then, she lets her eyes drift closed and bites down on her lip. "Oh God," she whispers, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest, trembling just noticeably, her voice sounding like a small, scared child. "She's really gone, isn't she?"

He nods, knowing that she's out of the denial and anger, and next will come the full-blown grief. "Yeah," he says, barely more than a whisper in the stillness. He watches her carefully, notes her guarded expression, and he knows that even now, she's trying to rebuild the walls she so carefully maintains, painting over the cracks and pretending they don't exist. Sometimes, she's just too strong for her own good. He winces inwardly, hating himself for what he's about to do to her, but deep down he knows it's better this way. For her to heal, she first has to break.

He swallows hard before beginning. "Your mother," he says, "was an evil woman and a crappy mom, and after looking at the gene pool you swam out of, I'm amazed you're only marginally screwed up. But…" He pauses, carefully watching her, wishing he didn't have to finish the sentence. "But, despite behaving like a total idiot…she did love you."

And that's it. He knows that's all it will take to bring her to her knees. He just has to be ready to hold her together until she can do it herself again.

Her lips press into a firm, hard line, her eyes tightly shut, though it does nothing to stop the flood of tears that spill down onto her skin. But still she does not reach for him, and he understands that, no matter how uncomfortable it makes him, he's going to have to make the first move and guide her in.

He reaches for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, pulling her to him gently until she finally folds into his arms. She doesn't embrace him; instead, her fists clench around handfuls of his t-shirt, holding onto him as though the world is sinking beneath her and he's the last anchor she has. Her face is buried in his chest, lips giving way to sobs as her shoulders hitch with every uneven breath. No longer does she seem like the same Lisa Cuddy he's known and loved for twenty years, and he knows that, in a sense, the broken woman in his arms isn't _his_ Cuddy. She's lost and in pain, but he knows she has the strength to find her way back again. She just needs time to heal. So he holds her close, tangling his fingers in her unruly raven curls, letting her cry into his chest until she runs out of tears. He doesn't tell her he loves her, for he sees no need in telling her something she already knows. He doesn't whisper platitudes or tell her that it'll be alright, because he won't lie to her. She's helped him pick up the shattered pieces of his life a thousand times before. Now he's simply returning the favor.

Eventually her tears slow and her breathing evens, and he realizes she's literally cried herself to sleep in his arms. But even now he does not release her, only buries his nose in her hair and closes his eyes, secretly reveling in the feel of her small body against his own. He may be miserable, insensitive, and callous, but he does love her.

He'll stay with her all night, keeping her wrapped in his arms, knowing that she doesn't need to be alone. When morning dawns, he won't push her, will pretend this never happened, and neither of them will ever mention it again. She'll be the same Lisa Cuddy, and he'll be the same Gregory House. But until then, he'll just hold her, and let her know she's not alone.

**_Then I see your face, I know I'm finally yours. I find everything I thought I'd lost before. You called my name, I come to you in pieces, so you can make me whole._**

**_So you can make me whole…_**

**The End**

_And there you have it, Houseketeers. My muse is sated, and I'm ready for the new episode. Thank you guys for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. If you haven't already, check out the song. You won't regret it. Seriously. And one more tiny little favor: please press the little blue button at the bottom of the screen that says "Review This Chapter". It'd mean the world to me. Seriously, reviews are like all I live for. Constructive criticizm is welcome, just please spare my bleeding heart harsh words. I'm sixteen and self-esteem is a very valuable commodity. Thanks again everybody! Enjoy the new episode._


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